Unsung, the noblest deed will die.
For lawless joys a bitter ending waits.
Forge thy tongue on an anvil of truth and what flies up, though it be but a spark, will have light.
Mother of the Sun, Theia of many names, for your sake men honor gold as more powerful than anything else; and through the value you bestow on them, o queen, ships contending on the sea and yoked teams of horses in swift-whirling contests become marvels.
There are many roads to happiness, if the gods assent.
Even success softens not the heart of the envious.